i'm not bill buckley, but i am writing for him. i grew up in new york, a suburb of rochester, a midsize city with my parents and my older brother, bob. in the fall of 1969, i was a freshman in the local public high school i didn't know anybody who went to private ones. my brother was a junior at yale. every weekend of the school year since he had gone away to college, i wrote him on a small, black metal typewriter that had belonged to mom. a letter reversing the events of the week. basketball games, school plays, little triumphs, tiny disasters, bulletins of adolescents dramatize an ionized. when we, the news barged into this home theater.